


Meeting Mycroft

by mystery_deer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A lot of implied stuff, Developing Relationship, Dubious Time Period, Gen, M/M, Not BBC Sherlock, Why Did I Write This?, mentions of taxidermy, mystrade, should I even post this at this point, this is difficult to tag as there is not a lot of interaction here and Greg just kind of meets him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 23:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18509752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystery_deer/pseuds/mystery_deer
Summary: On a sunny day in London, Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes meet for the first time.





	Meeting Mycroft

Greg met Mycroft purely by accident. He hadn’t even known, and would never have known, that Sherlock had a brother if he hadn’t run into him that bright Sunday morning.  
“Off to butt in on some other sap’s case?” He asked good naturedly, and Sherlock shook his head.  
“Off to see my brother. I’m stuck on some details of the Haridson heist and require consultation.” Gregory had scrunched up his face a bit and uttered the words that had sealed his fate.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” 

Before he’d known it he was accompanying Sherlock on his visit, admittedly curious to meet a member of Sherlock’s family and someone who was in Sherlock’s own words, sharper than him. “He has always been quicker than me.” He’d sighed as they rode in a cab over to wherever the man resided.  
“Why haven’t I heard of him before then? Surely, if he’s even smarter than you…”  
“He’s quicker not smarter.” Sherlock corrected, sounding every bit the younger brother. “And you haven’t heard of him because he has no desire to be heard about. All our lives...I swear.” He looked out the window, signalling the conversation was at its end. “He’s the most brilliant person I’ve ever known and the laziest bastard I’ve ever met.” 

They were let off in front of a posh yet unassuming building labeled ‘Diogenes club’ and the cabbie drives off, refusing payment. Sherlock gave this no mind, only uttering the word “Theatrics.” when Greg asked.  
Being inside the Diogenes was like being in a vacuum. There was no noise, not even the sound of silence. Once the front door shut soundlessly it was as if he’d been struck with deafness. Sherlock ushered him along without pause, presumably having been here many times before. The men and women in the dimly lit room all neglected to even spare a glance at the two men as they exited what Gregory would call the main lobby and wandered down an increasingly narrow hall that became darker and darker the further on they ventured.  
He wanted to ask Sherlock if this was the right way but held his tongue, not wanting to be a disturbance. With how quiet it was he was sure that even if he whispered as low as possible from this far away he’d still be heard by someone. 

Finally they reached a door, standing single file in the hall that was now so narrow that Gregory couldn’t raise his arms, Sherlock knocked. Just once.  
There was no response but the detective opened it regardless, revealing a rather large room which was a welcome reprieve from the cramped and nearly pitch black hall.

Gregory closed the door behind them as Sherlock made a beeline for the desk which was centered at the back wall. Greg didn’t follow, struck by the grandiosity of the room he found himself in.  
It appeared to be a study, with bookshelves as tall as the ceiling built into the walls and two large ladders on either side to allow easy access to anyone. It was much tidier than Sherlock’s flat, which was frequently a tripping hazard even after Watson had moved in, but he seemed to have the same penchant for collecting things. The shelves were filled with books and boxes and jars, carefully labelled and put in their proper places. What stood out to him were the animals. 

The room is filled with taxidermied animals, stuffed and arranged to look so lively that they began to frighten him the longer he looked. When he finally turned to look in Sherlock’s direction he has to choke down a scream. Above the two men, above the desk situated on the far end of the room, is the upper body of a gigantic lion. The lion is posed as if mid-pounce, ready to maul anyone who dares enter the room and the ferocity of the pose makes Gregory feel as if he’s prey. 

Moving closer, he listens in on the two men’s conversation. They are talking about things that he has no context for, throwing out names and places and data that means nothing to him and so he tunes out the words and listens only to their mannerisms. Sherlock’s brother is overweight and moves elegantly unlike some men on the force Greg has seen. The thought makes him flush, wondering if he’s being rude. He looks towards Sherlock instead, who moves fast and somewhat erratically. He decides that they’re both birdish, but Sherlock is more like a hummingbird while his brother is a swan.  
As soon as that thought enters his mind he locks eyes with the man they came here to see. A shock runs through his body at the contact.

“Who’s this?” Sherlock looks over as if he’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room.  
“Oh, yes this is Inspector Gregory.” Sherlock stepped aside and gestured towards the man. “Gregory, this is my brother Mycroft.” He supposed terribly strange names ran in the family.

Mycroft extends his hand out towards Greg and he takes it. Mycroft’s hands are smooth and dry like ice and his own are calloused and sweaty, scarred.  
“Don’t be, they’re workman’s hands.” Greg blinked, eyes widening in surprise.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Don’t be.” Mycroft repeated. “You should be proud, as long as you’re doing good work. It’s easy to do bad work in your field.” Greg opens his mouth to defend himself but Sherlock beats him to the punch, seemingly a bit frustrated that this meeting is taking longer than he’d expected.  
“Of course he does, do you think I’d bring him if he didn’t? Gregory is quick to listen to others and admit when he doesn’t know the answers to questions. So many inspectors these days are quick to do do do with no thought, absolutely no thought put into-”

“You make me sound dim!” Greg protested, not listening to the rest of Sherlock’s familiar tirade. “Like I’m some sort of fool who can’t decide things!”

“It’s only foolish when people are so stubborn, so sure of their being right that they never let themselves be wrong.” Greg thinks about how Mycroft’s features don’t change when he speaks. How smooth his skin seems, flawless. Nearly line-less despite him being quite a bit older than Sherlock. His eyes...he keeps being drawn back to the eyes for some damn reason. His eyes are sharp, and so bright they seem to belong to some unhuman all-knowing being that resides within the layers of skin and bone that make the man’s body. 

“Well, I’m terribly sorry but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave Inspector.” Startled out of his trance and realizing he was still attached to Mycroft’s hand, he took a step back. “I presume you know the way out?” Sherlock said. Greg wondered why he seemed to have cooled so suddenly.  
“Yeah...yeah. There’s only one fuckin’ way after all.” He muttered, turning and walking out the way he came. 

Once he reached the door he hesitated and turned back around. The two were once again deep in conversation, Sherlock slightly more emphatic this time but he decided to interrupt regardless. “Ey!” They both looked up. “Where...where do you get so many animals?” he asked, gesturing towards the general room. 

Mycroft, as if expecting the question, didn’t even pause to think before answering. “They are all - every last one of them - dear friends to me.”

Outside, the bustling street seemed nearly deafening and the sun far too bright. He wondered if people who experienced church miracles felt the same, he’d seen that kind of thing on television, though he suspected they were crooks. People shivering and wailing “I can see! I can see again!”  
The building looked as assuming as ever from the outside. People inside read books, drank coffee, ignored one another. He thought of the nearly hidden room in the very back of the building, where Mycroft sat surrounded by death and rebirth. He thought of his mask-like face and those eyes.

He began to walk, unsure of his direction or why he felt so shaken by the encounter. The man wasn’t threatening, hadn’t insulted him and while the rules of the building were peculiar they weren’t all that strange. But somehow and for some reason he quickened his pace steadily until he was sprinting. Passerbys eyed him strangely and his lungs began to constrict but he kept on running, and he didn’t stop until he could no longer see the Diogenes club peeking out over the line of other buildings in the crowded heart of London.

He realized, when he was home, that he had felt self conscious about his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I treat past v present like I treat Greg v Gregory in this hellish fic  
> Also I seem to love writing fics where literally nothing happens


End file.
